


Love Like This

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clint Barton sleeps with everyone, Deaf Clint Barton, F/F, F/M, First Time, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Multi, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, awkward things, gay panic!Clint, ish, soft things, will tag side Clint relationships as needed, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Clint has a job - and it's a real job, whatever his older brother wants to say about it - and he has a good life. He's happy, and he's, you know, a straight guy.Until Bucky freaking Barnes shows up in his tight, tight jeans and makes Clint question... everything.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 50
Kudos: 222





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersockie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersockie/gifts).



> For supersockie, who has been SO VERY PATIENT AND AMAZING
> 
> Beta read by the amazing Ro!

* * *

* * *

Clint had pointed out, more than once, that having a standing ‘bowling night’ not only added thirty years to their ages, but took them from self-respecting 11s to 4s. Sam usually laughed - at the last part - Steve got that furrow between his brows that meant was usually reserved for grave injustices, and Natasha just gave Clint a steady look for long enough that he stopped complaining.

And the sad thing was, Clint  _ loved _ bowling night - and he knew that made him lame as hell. Maybe it was the routine, knowing that every Tuesday night at midnight, their group of friends met up at Sunset Casino to enjoy half-priced beer and bowling for a few hours. Natasha, Sam, Steve and Clint were always there, of course, but the others - Wanda, Pietro, Maria, Kate, Sharon, - floated in and out. Maybe it was the as-advertised cheap beer. Maybe it was the fact that Clint, despite his complaints and protestations, was damn good at bowling. Sure, he was friends with competitive assholes (read: Steve and Natasha), and Steve was stupidly good at bowling, but it was  _ fun _ . Clint had even looked into them joining the local bowling league - knowledge that he kept to himself because Sam, at least, would never let him live it down and Clint got called old man by Pietro enough already that no one ever, ever needed to know. Unfortunately, or probably fortunately, they worked on the nights when the league had their games so… that was out. Clint could rest easy at twenty-eight and pretend he hadn’t been mentally designing their shirts and logos.

So he was - understandably, in his mind - kind of pissed when Steve showed up to bowling night with a total stranger in tow. 

The guy was a few inches shorter than Steve, had wavy dark hair that was long enough to tuck behind his ears, a stubbled jaw that could cut diamonds, and he wore the tightest pants Clint had ever seen on a guy - black denim that made his legs look long as hell and his thighs thick and- and he had paired those ridiculous pants with Steve’s UNLV hoodie, faded and missing the drawstring for the hood and spattered with paint.

Aside from Natasha, Sam and Clint, only Wanda had come for bowling night. And all of them stared at Steve and the stranger as they picked up shoes and made their way over to  _ their _ lane (the last one on the left, closest to the bar and farthest from the kid’s arcade crap).

Clint watched them approach, wondering at the smirks and shoulder shoves they traded and the way Steve looked bright and happy and carefree in a way that Clint had only ever seen him after Steve was drunk enough to border on alcohol poisoning or after Sam had fucked him particularly thoroughly in a time or place that wasn’t all that appropriate.

He looked over at Sam, but Sam was deep in an argument with Natasha over - what the fuck, rice milk vs. soy milk? And Wanda was on her phone, second beer of the night in hand, happy to sit there and observe and pray she didn’t actually have to play because she sucked a  _ lot _ at bowling.

All of which added up to Clint being the first to be introduced to Steve’s new friend.

“Hey,” Steve was still smiling so wide his teeth were blinding.

“Hey,” Clint said, and tried not to look too interested in who the fuck this guy was. Up close, the jawline was even sharper, and his cheekbones were just as sharp and- and his lips were dark and full and his eyes a blue that looked almost gray.

He met Clint’s appraising stare with one of his own, and they stared at each other, the guy’s full lips quirked up on one side, until Steve finally introduced them.

“Clint, this is Bucky. Bucky, this is Clint.” 

“Stripper?” Bucky asked.

Clint stared at him.

Steve laughed.

“No, that’s Pietro. Clint works at Tao.”

Bucky nodded, and Clint… Clint was an asshole, ask anyone.

“Stripper?” he asked Bucky.

Steve laughed again, and Bucky arched an eyebrow.

“No, Bucky just got out of a shitty ten-year relationship and decided to move to Vegas and go to UNLV in the fall.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“I was in the Army, and now I’m crashing on Steve’s couch and trying not to listen to the shit he and Wilson get up to.”

Which - okay, that was a lot of information, but it still didn’t explain why Bucky was at their bowling night.

Something of his irritation and confusion must have sunk through Steve’s happiness.

“We grew up together,” Steve said - and that was  _ something, _ but it didn’t explain everything in the way that Steve’s expression seemed to imply it did.

But neither man said anything else, and Clint…

He nodded.

“Cool.”

Steve tugged Bucky towards the rest of their little group, and Clint tried not to look like the pissed-off, whiny asshole that he felt like being.

Sam and Bucky did a one-armed hug thing, which had Steve grinning even  _ more _ \- and Clint hadn’t known that was even possible. 

Natasha and Bucky shook hands, both of them scowling just a little, which on Natasha looked like a totally neutral expression but on Bucky had his full lips pulled down at both corners and his silver-blue eyes narrowed.

“St. Petersburg,” Natasha said, apropos to nothing.

“Lomonosov,” Bucky replied.

Natasha smirked.

“Wild Horses,” she said.

Bucky sighed theatrically and nodded. He squinted at her, head tilted to the side and looked to be deep in thought for a moment.

“Barbie World.”

At least Sam, Wanda and Steve were was mystified by whatever was happening between Bucky and Natasha as Clint was.

“Uh?” Steve finally spoke up.

“We’ve met,” Natasha said, as if  _ that _ explained whatever… conversation had just passed between her and Bucky.

Bucky nodded in agreement and smirked, looking every bit as smug and pleased as Natasha.

“She’s got a great singing voice.”

Natasha’s glare was the thing of nightmares - colder than absolute zero and more intense than a thousand suns - but Bucky just continued to smirk.

“Right,” Wanda looked between the two, shrugged, and offered Bucky a three-finger wave. “I’m Wanda.”

Bucky nodded at her, smirk shifting to a smile that Clint was positive the guy had perfected in the mirror for maximum charm.

“Nice to meet you,” he said to her.

Wanda snorted a laugh, bless her soul.

“So,” Clint clapped his hands together, “are we going to bowl or-”

“For a guy who whines his ass off about this, you sure as hell love it,” Sam pointed out, but he at least bent down to start putting on his bowling shoes.

Thankfully, everyone else followed his example - in the shoe thing, not the giving Clint shit.

Clint, who had already put on his shoes and picked out his bowling ball, sat down at the digital console and set about reconfiguring the teams.

It had been established (read: Sam had called bullshit) that Steve and Clint weren’t allowed to be on the same team unless it was them versus everyone else. With Wanda there tonight, they had had an odd number, and Clint had already put himself and Steve on one team and everyone else on the other. Now that Bucky was here…

Clint deleted all of the teams and started over. He put himself with Natasha and Wanda, because there was only so much of Sam and Steve’s weird competitive foreplay that a sane person could take if they were on opposing teams. 

“It’s with a  _ y _ , not an  _ ie _ .”

He looked up to see Bucky hovering over his shoulder.

And, right. Clint had typed in  _ Buckie _ , having a hunch that wasn’t how the guy spelled it - and seriously, who the hell went by  _ Bucky _ anyway?

“Cool,” Clint said, and deleted the name and retyped it.

“Thanks,” Bucky gave him a grin, the same one he had turned on Wanda.

Clint stared back, nonplussed, until Bucky’s grin turned into a frown and he looked away.

“Pietro is going to kill me for not recording this,” Wanda said, smirk on her face, when Clint moved to sit down on his team’s side.

Clint gave her a look.

“You making new friends,” she clarified.

“I’m not- It’s weird that Steve dragged a stranger to our thing,” Clint defended himself.

Wanda kept looking at him.

“It is! I mean… he called me a stripper.”

“You  _ were _ a stripper,” Wanda pointed out.

“Exotic dancer,” he corrected on reflex, not that he actually gave a shit. And sure, he  _ had _ been a stripper when he first moved to Vegas six years ago, and there was nothing wrong with that - Pietro and Wanda both were strippers in addition to going to UNLV, and… and Clint realized he was just looking for reasons not to like the guy.

Wanda patted him on the head, condescending and affectionate all at once.

“Don’t worry, you’re still my first choice for bad decision sex.”

He rolled his eyes at her, but she had her focus back on her phone - probably texting her brother about what an asshole Clint was being.

And…

And it turned out that Bucky was really good at bowling too.

Since he went last for his side, and Clint went first for his, Clint found himself standing by the ball dispenser and watching Bucky finish up his turn each round.

He really didn’t understand how Bucky’s jeans were  _ that tight _ . Bucky had shed the hoodie before the game started, revealing a purplish henley that Clint kind of wanted to steal, and he had pushed the sleeves up his forearms to show off the way he held the ball and threw it perfectly every single time.

“Not bad,” Clint grudgingly admitted to Bucky after the guy had thrown three strikes in a row.

Bucky smirked.

“Back at you,” he said after Clint finished his own turn - second strike in a row.

Clint shrugged and moved away from the lane to go back to his beer - empty.

“Me too,” Bucky said, gesturing with his own cup.

And… Clint should volunteer to get them another round. Hell, this guy had been in the Army. He’d served his country and he was Steve’s friend and Sam didn’t seem to hate him and Natasha apparently  _ knew him _ and-

“I’ll get another pitcher,” Clint said.

Bucky nodded.

“I’ll go with you, I’m kind of hungry.”

So, Clint and Bucky left the lanes and headed towards the bar.

And stood in line, silence stretching between them.

Somehow, Bucky’s skin-tight jeans had pockets, and the guy had his hands shoved into them and it made them pull against his ass and thighs in a completely obscene way.

“So… UNLV?” Clint asked.

Bucky arched one eyebrow at him, since Clint’s use of the school name wasn’t actually a real question.

“Yeah,” he finally said when Clint didn’t offer any help. “Physics program.”

More standing in silence after that, with the line creeping forward at an excruciating pace.

“You and Steve grew up together?” Clint could be friendly.

Bucky nodded.

“Yeah. Pulled his ass out of a fight when we were six, and the little shit broke my nose for saving him.”

“Sounds like Steve,” Clint laughed.

Bucky grinned at him, eyes warm and soft.

And finally, it was their turn to order beer and nachos for Bucky, which Clint insisted on paying for. Because he was nice. 

Bucky started to eat while they walked back, long legs confident and fingers nimble as he navigated the pile of food that appeared to be more melted cheese than chips. He sucked his fingers clean after each bite.

Clint grabbed a stack of napkins as they passed by a condiment stand and shoved them at Bucky.

The other man took them and shoved them into his left back pocket and ate another nacho, and licked his fingers clean again.

Back at their lane, Clint’s team was doing horribly - Wanda, Clint was sure, was actually capable of bowling and instead just  _ tried _ to be as shitty as possible, and she was in fine form tonight. 

With a groan, Bucky shoved a few more nachos into his mouth, sucked his fingers clean and then used one of Clint’s napkins to wipe off his fingers before he stepped up to take his turn.

Clint watched him with a scowl - he still had more napkins sticking out of his pocket, a flag of beige against his black denim-covered ass. Bucky had excellent form when he bowled, long, clean lines from his extended arm to the way he shifted his feet for balance.

Another strike, and Bucky accepted high fives from Sam and Steve and winked at Clint.

Clint rolled his eyes and stepped up and got a strike of his own.

The game, despite Clint’s best efforts, was a slaughter. Natasha was unconcerned - she came to bowling night to hang out, and had pointed out to Clint more than once that only he and Steve cared about the ‘part where we throw the ball at the things’ in her most annoying tone. 

Sam was as uninvested as Natasha - in fact, the minute their last turns ended, the two of them walked off to go play air hockey, not even waiting for Clint to add up the truly painful final scores after Wanda and Bucky finished their turns.

Wanda pressed a kiss to Clint’s cheek.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’ll see you for yoga on Friday. Pietro says you still haven’t replied to his dick pic.”

Clint closed his eyes and slumped in his seat.

“That’s because I  _ deleted it, _ because I don’t like dick and I don’t like Pietro,” he ground out.

Wanda gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, said goodbye to Steve and Bucky, and abandoned him.

“Good game,” Steve said to Clint, grinning like the absolute asshole that he was.

Clint glared at him.

Bucky laughed, and Clint included him in the glare as well.

“Up for another game?” Bucky asked, gesturing to first himself and then Clint, “some one-on-one action?”

Steve looked like it was Christmas, absolutely  _ delighted _ at the idea even though it had nothing to do with him.

“Can’t,” Clint decided after looking over Bucky’s face again and taking in the way his eyes looked brighter and his hair was a little mussed and wild.

Bucky’s face slid into a neutral expression, and he nodded.

“Maybe some other time,” Bucky suggested.

“Maybe,” Clint said.

Steve looked like Christmas had been cancelled.

Clint toed off his shoes and got to his feet.

“See you later,” he said to Steve, and then walked over to the shoe counter to retrieve his battered purple Chucks. 

He leaned against the wall to put them back on, and as he looked up, his gaze caught with Bucky’s. Even all the way across the bowling alley, Clint could see how pale and intense his eyes were. 

Clint sighed, straighted up, and Bucky was still looking at him.

And… and maybe Clint was being an asshole. 

He lifted his hand in a wave, and Bucky waved back, shoulders relaxing and dark lips curving into a smile.

If Steve brought Bucky next week… maybe Clint would do the one-on-one thing with him.

It might be fun.

-o-

* * *

* * *

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

At twenty-one, Clint had moved to Las Vegas with two goals: get the fuck away from his dad and get the fuck away from Barney. 

Clint’s dad was an abusive asshole who gave no actual fucks that his grown son was not only as big as him, but could take him down with ease if only Clint wasn’t such a coward and thought about actually fighting back once or twice instead of just taking it. Barney, of course, was also an asshole. But he was the kind of asshole who ‘looked out’ for Clint by getting Clint a job at a gym that turned out to be a front for a drug operation and… well, it wasn’t coincidence that Clint left Iowa at the same time that the gym got busted by the cops.

Of course, once  _ in _ Vegas, Clint hadn’t really… known what to do. He’d had enough money to rent a by-the-week apartment for a few months, and enough determination not to go back to Iowa to take any jobs he was offered - which including sign spinning on a street corner in over one-hundred degree heat, stocking grocery stores in the early hours of the morning and, eventually, getting work as a stripper for an event company. One thing led to another, and Clint soon ditched the first two jobs and instead spent all his time taking off his clothes - for the event company and for Hunk Mansion on Thursday, Saturday and Sunday nights.

A few years of that, a few steady clients who booked Clint for all kinds of things, and he more or less tripped into his job at Tao.

Mood Director - it sounded like a bullshit job, and it was, according to Barney, currently on year five of fifteen at the Iowa State Penitentiary. But Clint got paid for it - both by the nightclub and by patrons who tipped him extravagantly - and what’s more, he was  _ good _ at it.

All he had to do, after all, was go from table to table, lounge to lounge, VIP room to private VIP room, and make sure everyone was having a good time and buying as many bottles as possible. Clint was hot - he’d been called a pretty, dumb blond for as long as he could remember, and he knew it was more or less true - and he worked out enough to make sure that it wasn’t just his face that was aesthetically appearling. He was also awesome, and fun to hang out with when it was his job to be awesome and fun to hang out with.

For the last two years, Clint had steadily built himself a damn decent life thanks to the job at Tao. He had a nice apartment - one that allowed dogs, and two weeks after moving in, Clint had finally adopted the one-eyed golden retriever at the shelter that he had been visiting for the past three months. He had friends - Kate was a bartender at Tao, and together, they’d handled more than a few handsy, asshole guests by flirting them into paying up and leaving; Natasha DJ’d there and a few other places and introduced Clint to Steve and Sam - both of whom worked at Chippendale’s, Steve as a performer and Sam as a bartender; Maria was a bartender at Hakkasan and, after her standing Monday night hookups with Natasha turned into dating and eventually moving in together, she joined their friend group; Sharon, Clint met at the ER, and it wasn’t a story he would ever tell the others and a lot of tequila had bought her silence. He  _ still _ wasn’t really sure how Wanda and Pietro, twins who were maybe twenty-two - and Clint still maintained their IDs were fake - and who were strippers and students at UNLV had just  _ showed up _ one morning at four am when Steve, Sam, Natasha, Clint and Maria were eating breakfast at their favorite dive restaurant before crashing for the night/day. And they’d been around ever since.

So Clint was good. 

Clint was fine.

Clint was, actually,  _ happy _ . 

Sure, he wasn’t sickeningly in love like Sam and Steve or Natasha and Maria, and he didn’t have a ten-year plan for his life like Kate or a college degree like Pietro and Wanda were about to or a stable career like Sharon. But he did just fine for himself - he never had a problem hooking up with women, and not only was he no longer living month-to-month, but he had a  _ savings account _ with five digits.

The only thing- 

The  _ only thing _ \- 

Was Bucky freaking Barnes.

After that first Tuesday night, he became a staple of the group hangouts. Every Tuesday night, he showed up to bowl - and taunt Clint with his skills and ridiculously tight jeans. Every few weeks, when they had a cookout at Sharon’s place, he showed up with a case of beer and a bag of plums and his standard skinny-ass jeans and a smirk. He came to movie nights at Natasha and Maria’s place. He hung out with Pietro and  _ didn’t _ attempt to murder him, and even joined him in giving Clint shit and texting totally inappropriate photos - no dick pics, thank fuck, because the eleven deleted ones from Pietro were  _ enough _ , but instead, the two of them kissing, or dancing, or stripping and- 

And it was annoying.

It was annoying, because aside from Steve dragging Clint, Nat, Sam and Bucky out to some play at some guy’s  _ house _ that had been taken over and gutted and decked out with lights covered in tin foil, and it wasn’t until three hours later when Clint was still horrifically sober that Bucky admitted the play had been his idea, because aside from  _ that _ \- Bucky was actually awesome.

Awesome. And funny. And smart as hell - not even just the physics stuff, but like…  _ everything _ , like he had NPR constantly playing in his head or had memorized all of Wikipedia or something.

And he owned a lot of awesome shirts. Like, a henley in every color known to man and maybe a few extra, and Clint wasn’t  _ jealous, _ per se - because Clint had been friends with Steve for years now, and the man’s body was… disturbingly perfect, and Clint had long ago decided to just… ignore his feelings of supreme inadequacy in  _ that one case _ . But… but Bucky filled out those henley’s and those stupidly tight pants like literally no one else Clint had ever seen.

It was impossible not to look at him, not to smile back when he smiled, not to listen to him laugh or lecture or admire his bowling, and it- 

It was a  _ thing _ .

Clint just didn’t know what kind of thing, or what the fuck to do about it.

And then, of course, Thanksgiving happened.

-o-

Working the floor over Thanksgiving was always a crap-shoot. This was Clint’s third year working Thursday night when most of America was at home drunk and stuffed on turkey. Which was fine, because Clint hated Thanksgiving on principle, anyway, and because… well, Clint enjoyed playing craps, and sometimes, he even won.

There were two private VIP rooms behind closed doors at Tao, the Opium rooms, and then the far less private VIP areas on the balcony of the main club. Clint floated between those, as well as the booths on the main floor and the dance floor itself, for four hours before he realized Bucky was there. At Tao. 

He was in a booth on the main floor - not cheap, but certainly easier to get than one of the balcony booths - and had an empty rocks glass on the table in front of him and his hair pulled back into a loose bun. He was also wearing a black henley - it was Clint’s second favorite, right behind the purple henley and just above the dark blue one that turned Bucky’s eyes silver.

“Hey, man,” Clint greeted him with a grin and slid into the booth beside him.

Bucky looked over at him, blinked and then lifted both eyebrows.

“Clint?”

Okay, so they weren’t friends. And Clint… He liked to think he wasn’t still the grade A asshole he’d been that first night Bucky hung out with them, but in the four months since, he thought they were at least… friend _ ly _ ?

“Uh… yep. I work here, remember?” It had been brought up. More than once. And only twice by Clint, when he suggested Bucky swing by sometime to see Kate or Natasha or… him.

“No. I- Of course I remember. It’s just- you…” Bucky trailed off. His eyebrows were no longer raised, but he was still looking at Clint as if he didn’t recognize him.

Clint frowned and shifted closer to Bucky in the booth. They were at the back of the club, and while the music wasn’t  _ pounding _ in Clint’s veins, it was loud enough that holding a conversation could be a challenge.

“You feeling okay?” he asked once he was pressed to Bucky’s side.

“Your shirt is transparent. I can see your nipples, Clint.”

It was so unexpected, and Bucky’s face and voice so bemused, that Clint couldn’t help but laugh.

Which made Bucky glare. And Bucky had clearly gone to the same school for glaring as Natasha. This wasn’t the first time Clint had been on the receiving end of that glare, but it might be the quickest it had made him shut up.

Clint cleared his throat.

“Uh, yes, I guess you can,” he said, and then sat up straighter and tugged at the shirt, already tucked into his black trousers, to see if- Yep, you definitely could see both of his nipples if he twisted just a little. The shirt was, as Bucky had noted, transparent - fine, black mesh and thin, solid purple stripes running across it in irregular diagonals. It was Clint’s go-to shirt for bachelorette parties in the VIP areas - and since one of the Opium rooms had been booked for that and the other for a group of women celebrating their ‘freedom’, i.e., divorces, Clint had figured it was the best bet for tonight.

But now, with Bucky staring at him like that…

Clint flushed and crossed his arms over his chest.

“It’s just a shirt, dude. For work.”

Bucky was still frowning, but he at least met Clint’s gaze again.

“You don’t usually dress like this,” Bucky said.

“Yeah, well,  _ you _ don’t usually drop in on me while I’m at work and then judge my wardrobe.”

“I’m not-”

“Hey, guys.”

They looked up at the approach of Sarah, one of the waitresses, dressed in a skintight and very short red and black lace dress. She winked at Clint, and he grinned back at her.

“Looks like you’re running on empty,” she indicated Bucky’s glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Vodka,” Bucky all but growled, sounding pissed-off now, and- what the fuck, it was just a  _ shirt _ . Just Clint’s  _ nipples _ . It wasn’t like Clint was parading around in skintight jeans or sending photos of himself making out with a mostly-naked Pietro and- and seriously, what the fuck did it even matter? Bucky might be up for nailing anything that breathed and smiled at him, but Clint wasn’t, and besides that-

Sarah cleared her throat.

Oh. Right.

Clint was at work.

“You know,” he said, and flashed his best, brightest, friendliest grin at Bucky, “we’ve got some Beluga Gold Line bottles. You ever had it?” He took a guess and named one of the top-shelf Russian vodkas they carried, since Bucky and Natasha liked to wax poetic about Russia, and it wasn’t like Clint was eavesdropping - his hearing aids were just… really good.

“Yeah, once or twice.” Bucky frowned slightly.

“Want to get a bottle? Celebrate… whatever?”

“Thanksgiving? The colonization of North America and genocide?”

“Or, you know, not that,” Clint suggested.

Bucky gave him a look.

“Have a drink with me?” he asked.

Which was pretty standard - guests asking Clint to share whatever expensive bottle he convinced them to buy. But usually, the guests were  _ women _ . Clint could - and did - hang with crowds of guys at the club - he could be the best bro to ever bro when it called for it - but most men were more likely to drop money on overpriced bottles when a sexy, scantily clad woman was doing the offering.

Then again, Bucky was… Bucky. Steve’s Bucky. So…

“Sure.” Clint smiled up at Sarah. “A bottle of the Beluga Gold Line and two glasses, Sarah.”

“You’ve got it.” She flashed Clint another wink and then walked off, the practiced sway of her hips attracting attention from the men and women in her wake.

Clint watched her go with a smirk.

“Are you two… a thing?” Bucky asked, distracting Clint and drawing his attention back to the table.

“A thing?” Clint repeated.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything else. It took a moment, but then Clint got it.

“Oh, oh - no. She- Well, I mean, we’ve had a few- But it’s not like… We don’t- Well, I’m not- I’m not really boyfriend material, you know?” Clint finished lamely, with the same line he’d been given by - as of last count - nine women who he’d tried to date instead of just having standing hookups with.

And Bucky was back to frowning.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Uh… that Sarah and I go out sometimes but not, like… as a couple?” he tried to explain.

“Not that part, the thing about you not being boyfriend material. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Oh. Just that I’m, you know,  _ me _ . Good for a night of fun, even a few nights, but not like… not the guy you take home to meet Mom and Dad, ,or whatever people who date do.”

“That’s bullshit,” Bucky said, back to the growly voice.

Clint was saved from trying to come up with a response by Sarah’s return, bearing the clear bottle and the black wooden case the bottle came in, as well as two shot glasses.

“Celebrating?” she asked Bucky.

“Sure,” he said, watching her open the bottle. “Another year not dead.”

Sarah’s smile faltered slightly, and she looked to Clint for help.

Clint rolled his eyes and draped one arm over Bucky’s broad shoulders. Bucky immediately tensed under him, but Clint kept his arm there.

“Dude’s out of the army after ten years. He’s, you know… celebrating being alive.”

“Of course - thank you for your service,” Sarah said, and gave Bucky another smile.

Bucky remained tense under Clint’s arm, but he at least took the shot glass of Vodka Sarah passed him. Clint accepted one from her as well.

“Thanks,” he said, and raised the glass to her as a signal to run away, because Bucky…

Bucky was normally in full flirt mode 24/7, the only person who could even really compete with Pietro’s seemingly inexhaustible attraction to everyone and desire to chat them up.

This might be the first time Clint had actually seen Bucky  _ cranky _ . 

Sarah took the hint, gave them both a nod, and took off.

Clint eased away from Bucky a bit, putting breathing room between them and retracting his arm.

“So, what are we drinking to?” he asked.

“To our health,” Bucky sighed, and tapped his glass against Clint’s, sounding damn near depressed.

And… okay…

Clint tossed back the shot and set his glass down.

Bucky refilled both of their glasses.

Usually, Clint did one shot with a group before moving on - unless, of course, he’d convinced the group to drop a few thousand in bottle service, and then he’d stay for at least twenty minutes. But Bucky…

“What’s going on?” Clint asked after they downed the second shots.

Bucky’s lips curled, and Clint couldn’t tell if it was a sneer or a smirk. He was even less sure who the expression was directed at - Bucky or him.

“Who told you you weren’t boyfriend material?” Bucky asked him.

Clint snorted.

“Just about every girl I’ve ever had the chance to ask to make things more serious than casual?”

“Idiots,” Bucky muttered.

Clint shrugged.

“Nah. They… they were pretty much right about it. Don’t think it would have worked with any of them. Not even Sharon.”

“Sharon - Sharon, Sharon? She told you you weren’t boyfriend material?”

Clint frowned.

“Not - not in those words, no.” He shook his head and had to laugh. “Actually, she invited me over for dinner the day after I asked her to, you know, consider actually dating me instead of just… fucking me on a semi-regular basis. Anyway, she made dinner - which, by the way, Sharon is awesome with a grill, but like, if it’s  _ not _ grilled, do not eat her cooking, okay? - anyway. We ate, we drank, I figured this was a good thing, but then she sat me down on the couch and explained her life goals and her career path and the three kids she wanted to have before she was forty, and the- the  _ everything _ . She has  _ everything _ planned, dude. And she said that I’d be awesome at the making babies thing, and probably at the raising babies thing, but she didn’t see me being  _ happy _ in her ten-year plan for world domination or whatever? And, I mean… she’s not wrong. Kids are… okay in concept, but I don’t think I should… And like, what, PTA meetings? Interact with normal people? Doctors and nurses and… people who aren’t paid to get other people drunk?”

“Huh.”

Bucky looked thoughtful - which was definitely a step up from cranky.

“What?”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Nothing. I’m glad she didn’t say you weren’t boyfriend material.”

Clint snorted.

“She didn’t have to. I can read between the lines - and I’ve had enough women actually say those words to know what she was getting at.”

“Clint-”

“Hey, I gotta make the rounds and check in on the VIPs. But, uh, thanks for the drink?” Clint slid out of the booth as smoothly as he could manage - and after years of practice, it still felt a little awkward.

Bucky was scowling at him when Clint stood up and smoothed down his shirt.

“What? It’s all good, dude. Sarah will swing by and check on you - just let her know if you need anything, okay?”

Bucky sighed, the sound lost in throbbing music but the motion obvious enough for Clint to follow. But then he nodded.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Clint forced a smile.

“Anytime. Have a good night, okay?”

He walked away, feeling unsettled and weird and… and kind of like he wanted to just turn around and slide into the booth beside Bucky again and just… hang out.

Clint chalked it up to Bucky’s weird mood and the fact that he was a friend, and made his way towards the stairs to the balcony to check in on the two groups partying up there.

He was on the second stair when someone stopped him, hand over his on the rail.

“Hey.” It was Bucky, tight as hell jeans and black henley and pulled back hair and slightly parted lips, wide eyes and - maybe it was just the lighting of the club - flushed cheeks.

“Hey,” Clint responded, unsure.

“They’re wrong,” Bucky said.

“Uh…”

“You are boyfriend material. You’re awesome boyfriend material, Clint. You’re- You’d be fucking awesome at it.”

“Dude, I can’t even keep a cactus alive!”

“That’s because you water them too much - which I’ve told you how many times now? - and what does that have to do with anything? You think dating is like a cactus?” Bucky sounded somewhere between amused and horrified.

“Fuck you, you know what I mean.”

“You take care of Lucky just fine. And Natalia. And Kate. Sharon. Maria. Pietro. Wanda. Sam. Steve. You’re amazing to your friends.”

“What about you?” Clint asked, because Bucky’s exclusion from the list was more than a little notable in Clint’s mind.

“What about me?” Bucky asked, brows drawn together in yet another frown.

“Not friends, are we?” Clint offered a slightly bitter smile. He’d pretty much set the stage for  _ that _ himself, right from day one.

“No - we are,” Bucky said, and Clint realized Bucky’s hand was still on his, on the railing. Huh.

“But?” Clint guessed. He had, after all, been dumped by enough women to guess that Bucky’s ‘it’s not you’ speech had to be relevant to  _ something _ . Clint just didn’t know what.

Bucky drew in a deep breath, let it out shakily.

“But I… I wish you were my boyfriend,” Bucky said with a small shrug and a tight, brittle smile.

Clint stared at him, absolutely positive he hadn’t heard that right.

Because- 

Yeah, Bucky flirted with him just as much as Pietro did, and while Pietro did it to be  _ annoying _ , Bucky did it like it was his third favorite hobby or something. But, Clint was straight. Clint was straight, and even more importantly, Bucky flirted with  _ everyone _ , including people ten times more attractive, more intelligent -  _ more _ anything - than Clint.

Bucky with his tight jeans and endless henleys and smile and jaw and eyes and  _ brain _ could have anyone he wanted.

What the fuck was he talking about, he wished  _ Clint _ was his boyfriend?

“How much have you had to drink?” Clint asked, because that was the only explanation for this. Shit. Had he coerced Bucky into buying a bottle when he’d already been mostly drunk? Steve would kill him. Hell, Bucky would probably kill him if-

Bucky’s hand lifted away, and Clint fought the completely irrational urge to snatch it back.

As Clint watched, Bucky straightened up, looked almost like he should be back in uniform, he was standing so tall and stiff. His face went blank and his eyes almost distant.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said, and before Clint could respond, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Leaving Clint staring after him.

Leaving Clint wondering what in the  _ actual fuck _ he was supposed to do now.

-o-

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Will add tags as needed, including relationship tags if that's something people need? But the only explicit stuff you will be reading is Clint/Bucky.


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